


"Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?"

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 14:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17644964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: It's a simple question, really,it is.And the answer should be simple, a bark of laughter and an easy "no".But when the devil never lies, how is he supposed to answer?





	"Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?"

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer that I don't own Lucifer or any of the show's characters and content.** I just started watching it recently and fell in love with the charming devil.
> 
> **Please take note of the self harm tag** (the rating is also due to this). This is your second warning of a serious subject in this oneshot, due to Lucifer's issues with his wings. If self harm or mention of it is a trigger of yours, then I would strongly suggest you read no further.

She potters around the kitchen prepping tacos even though it isn't a Tuesday, as per Trixie's "pretty pretty  _pretty please_ , Mom?" and puppy eyes, catching herself smiling with every random burst of conversation between her daughter and Lucifer.  If someone had told her, upon first meeting him, that the city's most popular club owner and self-proclaimed lord of hell would be spending Film Friday with them, no ulterior motives in sight aside from some quiet downtime, she'd have laughed in their face.  She might have even been tempted to check their car for drugs for the sheer absurdity of the notion.

But that was then, this is now and despite Lucifer's oddball tendencies, despite his "method acting" and family issues and sprawling knowledge of all things questionable, morbid, and outright illegal... he makes for pleasant company.  He even gets along with Trixie now, despite his frequent grousing over her sticky fingers and abysmal taste in literature.  He doesn't bat an eye when Chloe calls in a favour for a few hours of  _urchin_ -sitting duty or Trixie herself requests a ride in his "super duper fancy car" on the way home from school.  And to think she once had him pegged as a flight risk if he caught a  _whiff_ of anything labelled commitment.  Not even phased by the idea of a night spent binging every animated DVD Trixie owns featuring singing animals and surprisingly deep plot points, like a champ.   _Unlike a certain dumbass with a love of all things pudding and dislike of talking animals._

It's nice to be in Lucifer's company without a case snapping at their heels.  It's nice to be in his orbit without his wardrobe of crazy bursting wide open and gobbling her up.  It's nice to be under the same roof as him without threat of an active shooter around every goddamn corner.  And it's really, really nice to be around a guy who makes Trixie so happy, has her whole face lighting up in delight as she yells his name and tries her damnedest to tackle him to the ground.  Always a concern with a prospective partner - will Trixie like them?  Will they like Trixie?  Will they  _click?_ Will they clash?  Will she be presented with a "choice" between partner and daughter and kick the sorry sack of shit to the curb for ever questioning her priorities?

She scuttles away from that line of thought, reassembles walls between "Lucifer" and "partner" as she mixes up the salsa.  It'd been a fool's notion to entertain after one kiss -  _one!_ \- and Lucifer being... well, Lucifer, charming and funny and protective and a  _goddamn pain in the ass._   She'd known long before then that he marched to the beat of his own drum and their rhythms didn't quite align properly but...

"Did it hurt?"  Trixie asks out of the blue and it draws Chloe up short, curiosity immediately piqued.  Is she asking about the scarring on his back that he's so twitchy about?  Another injury?  Something she hasn't discovered yet, doubtful though it may be since she's seen him parading around in his birthday suit before?  Several times.  Several  _unfortunate_ times.

_Keep telling yourself that, Decker._

"Did what hurt?"

"Falling from heaven."

Had Chloe been holding the bowl she'd have dropped it for sure, eyes going to the sofa like laser sights, boring holes into the back of Lucifer's head.  Bad enough that he brings his... his...  _devil persona_ to work and spouts it at crime scenes but to  _Trixie?_ Just what has he been saying for such a question to pop up?  Silence is Trixie's answer for a long, long minute, so much so that she springs up beside him and her face is a picture of  _concern_ and this is wrong, her baby shouldn't be worried over a grown man who might,  _just might_ , be completely off his rocker.

_And I introduced them._

"Lucifer?"  His head turns when Trixie says his name but he doesn't utter a word, falling to a stillness so absolute he might as well be a statue carved into her living room.  There's something... off about him, all of a sudden.  Chloe can't put her finger on it but she can  _feel_ it, a sudden absence of warmth, an encroaching chill that has the breath shivering in her lungs and the fine hairs at the nape of her neck standing on end.  "Lucifer?"  Trixie says again, softer this time, too soft for Chloe to hear but she knows the shape of his name on a mouth, and lays her hand on his shoulder.  Still nothing.  Does he even  _blink?_

"Why don't you pick a DVD for us and give Lucifer a couple of minutes to-" get his shit together "-himself, monkey?"  She calls over and it breaks whatever spell settled around them.  Sort of.  Trixie jerks back from Lucifer like she'd just been static shocked, tears off the sofa and around to their DVD stand with all her usual enthusiasm and Lucifer... his head turns  _just so_ in Chloe's direction.   _I know you're watching,_ that movement says, but he doesn't complete it.  Doesn't twist his torso around or brace his arm on the back of the sofa or say a word.  Like... what?  What bothers her so much about -

He returns his attention to the TV, effectively dismissing her, and Chloe's tempted to march right over to him and upend the salsa on his head.   _So tempted._

* * *

He doesn't speak for the rest of the evening, though she occasionally catches his lips moving along to some of the cats' songs, spies his foot tip-tapping to the beat, sees the flicker of his eyes as he takes in the happenings on screen and the brief glances afforded to her and Trixie when he thinks they're not looking.  He eats in silence.  He accepts Trixie's gradual invasion of his personal space in silence.  He sips at his drink in silence (she'd offered wine but he settled on coffee instead).  He bears the indignity of sticky fingers creasing fistfuls of his suit in silence.  If it weren't for the small movements and the light creeping back into his eyes Chloe would think he'd fallen asleep or gone and popped his clogs sitting upright.

He only breaks from his... non-Lucifer-ness at his Corvette with Trixie's arms clamped tight around his legs and her chin jutting into his hip, mouth set in  _The Pout_.  She's tempted to muscle her way beside them and listen to what they have to say to one another but she hangs back, gives them some semblance of privacy.  Devil persona or not, Trixie's question had struck a chord, a  _painful_ one.  Better to let him explain, or Trixie apologise, or... whatever they're discussing.  She takes her cue to approach when Lucifer, in typical fashion, pats Trixie on the head with a shadowed remnant of his usual smile, his "have a good night, small human" pitched loud enough for Chloe's ears to catch, an invitation for her to approach.

She does, just as Trixie throws another curveball into the open.  "Your wings are very pretty, Lucifer.  You shouldn't hide them."

He visibly  _flinches_ , draws back as if burned and Trixie relinquishes her hold on him, likely realising she's said something she shouldn't have.  It's... well.  Mind-boggling, really.  Ella's of the opinion Lucifer's deep into method acting.  Dan thinks he's got a few screws loose.  Chloe... doesn't even know which side of the fence she stands on, but there's no denying the raw  _panic_ on Lucifer's face as he twists this way and that and casts wide-eyed glances over both shoulders as if to reassure himself that there aren't any extra appendages attached to his back as he puts distance between himself and Trixie.  If it's an act then it's a damn good one, but if it isn't...

What the hell is she thinking?  As if she's going to entertain his crazy by putting a hand on his shoulder and saying - something in the hopes of providing comfort.  It's  _insane_.   _He_ might very well be insane.  He sure acts like it sometimes!

"Lucifer -"

"I should be going.  Thank you for the food and a pleasant evening, Detective, Beatrice," he says, whip-quick and  _cold_ , and before she can get the cogs turning in her head and snark back at him with something,  _anything_ , he's reversing into the road and all but burning rubber in his haste to leave.   _Flee._ That's what he's doing.  He's running.  From... what?  Them?  Trixie's belief in his words?  Accountability?

A small fist knocked up into her elbow reminds her to wave, half-hearted at best, but there's no visible return of the gesture.   _Jerk._

"What was that about Lucifer's wings, baby?"  She asks when he's peeled round a corner and she stops wincing at the tyre squeal.  Trixie looks up at her, eyes wide and lashes damp and lower lip wobbling and oh, oh no, oh no no  _no_ , he has  _not_ made her baby girl cry.  She'll shoot him in the leg again, first chance she gets,  _Lucifer Morningstar you sonofabitch!_

"I didn't mean to upset him, Mommy, I swear.  They're just.  They're so big and pretty and I - I think they're hurting."

"But you  _believe_ him, about the wings?"  She's going to kill him.  She's going to  _kill_ him and make sure it's  _painful_.

"Yeah?  They're like... like eagle wings?  But white and  _huge_.  Does Lucifer hide them from you?  Is that why you don't believe him - because you can't see them?"

"Angels don't exist, though, monkey."

"Sure they do, Mommy.  Lucifer says so."

"But -"

"And Lucifer  _never_ lies."

And doesn't  _that_ stump her?  It's a fact she can't ignore, can't sweep under the rug, can't  _escape_.  Not once, in the year and some weeks she's known him, has Lucifer lied to her.  Oh sure he might  _conveniently_ leave out details and go do his own thing to draw out a suspect, might paint a bullseye in the middle of his own back to keep her safe, but he's never  _verbally_ lied to her.  No half-truths, no misdirection, no attempts to turn her the wrong way round and upside down.  Even when it would have suited him, spared him ridicule or suspicion or distrust.

But he speaks of the impossible.  God being real?  Angels?  The  _devil?_ Dressed in sharp suits and breathing equal parts infuriating charm and sarcasm?  Her  _partner_ , the devil?  She can't believe it.  She  _can't_.  It's  _not_ true.

"Mommy?"  She blinks one-two-three in quick succession, glances down to find Trixie clutching her hand tight and staring up at her.  There's that concern again, a grave set to her baby's face that doesn't belong there, shouldn't  _be_ there for years yet, and she has to wonder.  Is she doing the right thing, keeping all this... this  _insanity_ around Trixie when she's already had so much upheaval and stress in her life?  In the past couple of  _months_ without any space to breathe and bounce back from it?

"Yeah, monkey?"

"I think you should visit Lucifer tomorrow," Trixie says, tugging on her hand as she heads towards the apartment stairs, a bouncing skip to her step, and Chloe has no choice but to follow with an equal bounce.  It's just the  _law_ of being a mother.  "And," Trixie continues, throwing an  _evil_ grin over her shoulder that has Chloe thinking it  _might_ be more prudent to run for the hills, "I think we should watch Brother Bear now."

"... You just want to see Mommy cry, don't you?"

_"Weeeeellllll..."_

* * *

The penthouse is quiet when she slinks from the elevator, slow and careful like she's creeping into a serial killer's lair.  Dark, too.   _Ominous_.  If she lets her mind drift she can almost count the heartbeats racketing through her veins, every breath, maybe even every individual hair in her ponytail as it swishes across her shoulders.  There's a tension thrumming through the air, something that sets her teeth to itching as she inches past the piano, head on a swivel as she tries to track him down.

Not in bed, thank  _god_.  Not passed out behind the bar.  She avoids the balcony, doors swept wide in welcome though framing nothing but empty air, and dares to venture further, down the hall she hasn't set foot in before.  There's a light on two doors on the left and she heads for it, biting down on his name as it curls on her tongue.  Call it dread, call it suspicion, but she doesn't want to give him forewarning of her presence if he hasn't spotted her already.  She doesn't want to give him a chance to throw up the walls he has around everyone.

Everyone except, maybe, Trixie.  If Chloe can bring herself to believe him, believe  _her daughter_ and the genuine worry she has around,  _for_ , Lucifer.  Like he's hurting and hiding it, and only children can see through his facade.

She pauses by the door (the  _bathroom_ , she can hear running water, she's going to see him naked again god help her), up on her toes, takes a steadying breath.  Another.  And a third.  Then she settles just her fingertips on it and pushes, thinking if it doesn't open she'll turn tail and leave, it's a barrier speaking loud and clear that no-one's welcome and - it swings open without so much as a squeak.  Light drops over her in one fell swoop, unforgiving, and she throws her hand up if only to protect her eyes from burning straight out of her skull, dares to squint through her fingers.  It's a bathroom alright, sterile and white and at odds with all the gleaming black of his... main entertainment area?  Living quarters?

But no, not all  _pristine_ like the initial glance right in front of her face has her assuming.  There's red.  On the floor, the sink, smeared on the mirror and spattered on the - on the walls.   _Blood_.   _Lots_ of it.  And there, huddled in the shower clad in only a pair of boxers: Lucifer.  The worst she's ever seen him, pale like  _bone_ , shivering, tucked up as small as he can make himself, long lean limbs curled up, curled  _in_ , like he's shielding himself from something.  Or some _one_.

"Lucifer?"

He doesn't stir, doesn't acknowledge her presence.  She says his name again and gets the same lack of reaction.  When she dares inch closer she can see his eyes are closed.  Tight, corners crinkled, brows furrowed, lips a thin line of distress.

"What happened here?  Where are you hurt?  Can you hear me?  Lucifer?"  Not a peep, a squeak, or a moan.  Just that silent trembling, oblivious to her and the carnage painted around him and the  _fucking cold shower_.  She jerks her hand back from the brutal spray, diverts her attention to the power button instead (just how long has he been like this for the warmth to have leached entirely away despite the high heat?) and then the shelving to find the... least ruined towel.  Black, of course, but it doesn't feel wet or tacky or like it's just been dunked in an impromptu  _blood_ bath, and so she hooks it over one arm and reaches out to Lucifer again with the other.  She pitches her voice soft and low as she says, "I'm going to touch you now, yeah?  On your left shoulder.  It's just me, it's just Chloe.  You're safe now, okay?  I'm not gonna hurt you."

The contact seems to pull him from wherever he's wandered off to in his head,  _recoiling_ when she makes contact as if she's just struck him, burned him, and oh, does it make her heart bleed.  What she'd give in this moment to gather him into a hug and squeeze him tight and never let go but - she can't.  Where is he hurt?  Why is there no blood in the shower with him?  What happened?  Is he  _mentally_ here?  Does he even recognise her?  Will she make him worse?  But then his head tips up and his eyes blink open and they fix on her and they're all  _wrong_.  There's no glimmer in them, no mischief, no  _life_.  Like they're a twin void stuck in his face, drawing her in and pushing her back and - 

_"Detective?"_ Raw and raspy, like he's speaking after screaming himself hoarse, such a quiet, scratchy whisper she'd have missed it if she hadn't turned off the shower already.

_"Lucifer._ Hey, I'm here.  It's just me.  I didn't mean to startle you, I'm sor-"

_"Shouldn't... be here."_

"I think I  _should_.  What happened here, Lucifer?  What happened to  _you?_ Can you show me where you're hurt?  I won't fuss or touch, I promise, but you probably need a doctor and - Lucifer?"  Why is he  _smiling?_ A humourless slash across his face with too many teeth and not enough light, falling well short of his eyes as he lets his head drop to the side, cheek almost resting on his shoulder, and fixes her with that distant, empty stare.

_"You wouldn't - believe me - if I told you."_

"Oh yeah?  Try me."  Challenge issued between her teeth and god but she hopes he meets it.   _Viciously_ hopes he meets it, if only to stir the fire in him and snap him out of whatever this is.  Drive him up to his feet and have him hissing in her face, have his face dark and dangerous with the fury he typically levels solely at murders and  _other_ unsavoury characters.   _Anything_ other than this... this shadow of himself.

A chuff of noise, maybe a botched attempt at laughter, and his head slips the other way like his neck consists of flesh and rubber.   _"Of course you - trust the rapscallion's word - over mine."_

"Rapsca - Trixie?  What does this have to do with Trixie?  Oh, Lucifer, this isn't about wings again, is it?  You can't be serious."

_"Told you so."_

"Lucifer!  Just tell me what - no.  Actually, no.  That can wait.  First you're gonna get up out of that shower and you're gonna get dressed into something decent and  _warm_ and then I'm gonna force some tea down your throat and  _then_ you can tell me what happened.  Exactly in that order.  Come on, get up, don't make me haul you over my shoulder."

_"Like to see you - try."_

"I just will if you don't work with me," she promises and maybe there's a touch of venom in her tone but who can blame her?  She latches onto his wrist, maybe tighter than she should considering the state of  _everywhere_ , but if he's got enough sense to snark back at her then he's got enough cylinders firing behind his thick skull to let her know if it hurts.  She latches onto his wrist and  _pulls_ , expecting someone of his height to have considerable weight to match, and manages to budge him exactly  _nowhere_.  Not even an inch.  She frowns and he smiles that same not-smile.  She tries again and still he isn't moved.  Is he toying with her?  Throwing his weight  _against_ her?  But no, there aren't any lines of tension in his limbs except for the arm she's trying to hoist him up by.

"What the  _hell?"_ She chucks the towel over her shoulder and takes hold of his elbow with that hand, makes one last effort with all her might, determined that he's either getting out of the shower or she's going down beside him and bruising her ass in the process.  What are friends for, right?  Something flickers in his expression, like a switch flipped or a decision reached, the taut lines softening  _just a bit_ , and as he corrects the angle of his head his eyes drop into a slow blink, the breath leaves him in one long exhale.  A sigh?  She doesn't know.

What she  _does_ know is the resistance... shifts.  Like a group of bodybuilders had hold of his torso and let go, just like that, in the space of his blink, allowing his weight to pitch forward and his muscles to bunch and coil.  As he rocks forward she stumbles back, and up he gets.  Almost like... it's his conscious decision to be moved, to  _allow_ himself to move, finally working with her as he steadies himself with a hand on the wall and she spies the stains.  On his nails, around them, under them.  His hands are clean, but a shower can only do so much without vigorous scrubbing.   _Blood_.  So he  _is_ hurt - there isn't someone else slowly perishing elsewhere in his penthouse.

Right?  Right.

"Right.  That wasn't so bad, was it?  Here, dry yourself off, then we'll get you into fresh clothes and -"

_"We?"_

"... Okay,  _I'll_ get you into fresh clothes.  Y'know, if you don't cooperate.  So please just cooperate, yeah?  And I can make you something to eat!  What do you have in your kitchen?  I doubt you'd want tacos again so soon but I can make stew or soup or sandwiches, maybe something light for your stomach?  What tea do you like?  Do you have honey to go with it?  I could make you hot chocolate instead or - Lucifer you're supposed to be  _drying yourself off with that_ , not wearing it like some fancy neckpiece!"  She tries planting her feet and standing firm as he crowds into her personal space, effectively herding her in the direction he wants,  _out the door_ , but he won't be stopped and hands catch hold of her waist to steer her backwards, won't allow for her to scuttle along behind him.  Like he doesn't want her seeing his back.  Is that where he's hurt?  More scars to go with the -  _is his father here?_ Is that why she shouldn't be here?  Will she finally get her chance to confront the bastard responsible for all of Lucifer's pain, physical and otherwise?  "Is there anyone else here, besides us?"

_"No."_

The door swings shut behind him before she can catch a glimpse of the mirror and his reflection, and then his hands relocate to her shoulders and firmly turn her around so she's facing front as they head back to the main living area.  Call it wishful thinking, call it dread, call it an overactive imagination but she's  _positive_ there's more to his hands on her shoulders than simply keeping her on the right track.  There's some weight to the contact, and his gait isn't too steady behind her.  Stumbling, almost.  Like she's an anchor keeping him steady against a current battering him every which way.

She gets one brief glimpse of the bar as they come out of the hall before something black and fuzzy obscures her vision and he casts her aside in her momentary indignation.  She squawks at him as she swipes for the towel and yanks it off, and in the seconds it takes her to whip it to the floor he's somehow managed to flee into his bedroom.  Without her catching sight of his back.  In  _seconds_.  How the fuck - she didn't even hear him  _sprint_.

"You know," she says, loud and almost singsong as she advances on his final domain, "you never did tell me what happened.  Never outright said you've done something to yourself or someone else is hurt.  I can take a couple of educated guesses if you're gonna keep your silence, but wouldn't it be easier to just tell me?"  Of course she doesn't expect an answer, not with his voice so rough.  But maybe a noise of acquiescence or denial?  That chuff of what she reckons is his passable laughter at the moment?  Maybe a pair of trousers balled up and chucked at her head?  A flash of his birthday suit to send her screaming from his penthouse or snatching up the towel to bar him from her sight?  He's done it before, so...

But there's none of those things, only the faint sounds of him moving unsteadily around his bedroom and rifling through drawers.  Chloe doesn't say anything else, doesn't so much as  _breathe_ as she draws near, just on the  _chance_ she'll catch him off guard and get a clue as to what the fuck's happened, where everything's gone so horribly wrong.  This isn't Lucifer, he doesn't  _run_ , he doesn't  _hide_ , he doesn't just back himself into a corner and detach himself from a situation as if the lack of interest or emotion is the best route to get someone off his back.  He's loud, he's proud, has an extensive vocabulary more than capable of flaying someone for days and he uses it to great effect and yet - and  _yet._

He's in the walk-in closet, easily the size of her living room, every suit and shirt and pair of trousers in their own place, evenly spaced, arranged in... what?  Does he have an organisational preference?  Fabric blends?  Colour?  Brands?  Price?  Favourites first?  Shoes neatly tucked out of the way in racks separating the formal wear from casual and - he  _does_ actually own more than one pair of jeans.  Who'd have thought?  She'll need to prompt Ella to part with her cash.  She gives herself a mental shake and slap as well, drags her attention off all the attire in favour of looking at the man himself to find him clad in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else.  Stumbles over the image of them slung so low on the sharp cut of his hips, his bare feet, his  _toes_ ( _really, Decker, of all the things to fixate on?)_ before her brain catches up with her eyes as they lift and she claps her hands over her mouth too late.  She can't pluck the gasp from the air between them and stuff it into her boots, can't remove all trace of her presence as he spins to face her and almost topples over into the swathe of grey  _everything_ on his right.

His  _back_.  The  _scars_.   _The_ scar, one missing.  All misshapen and - and -

_"What happened?"_ She asks on a hitching breath, horrified, hands raised in gentle surrender as she chances a step closer, blinks rapid-fire to keep the tears from gathering.  That one glimpse.  It's not what she remembers.  Not  _two_ scars bracketing his spine in... in partial crescent shapes, white and ragged like some cruel device had been strapped to his back and ripped off or ripped  _out_ , silent testament to what must have been months, maybe years, of agony and suffering.  There's one scar on the left of his spine, reddened and  _livid_ compared to her memory, and the other side swollen and unblemished, as if wiped clean of his history.

_How?_

He backs up from her, paler than he was in the shower, something like panic in the frantic darting of his eyes from her to the walls to the escape  _behind her_ , hands stumbling over hangers as he searches for - something, a weapon?  Something to defend himself with?  Something to distract her with so he can run?

"Lucifer, talk to me.  What happened to your back, to  _you?"_

_"You won't believe me."_

"No!  I - Lucifer, I'm not blind.  Talk to me, please."

_"I can't."_

"Can't or  _won't?"_ She hits back, a low blow for sure, and he flinches.  It makes the icy coil in her stomach tighter, acid churning, and if she doesn't get out of this closet soon she's going to be sick, but she needs Lucifer out with her and she needs to  _know_ , to  _understand_ what's happened to her - to her friend.

_"'m fine,"_ he clears his throat, tries again, still won't meet her eyes as he tests the words on his tongue before voicing them.  "It's... nothing to concern... yourself over."

She's almost tempted to call him on the lie, but what if it's not?  What if he  _believes_ what he says?  It's not a lie, then, is it?  "Lucifer, please, let me help, you're  _hurt."_

"You  _can't,_ detective."

"Well I can damn well try!"

They stare at each other, caught in stalemate, in limbo, he on the verge of fleeing and she refusing to back down, determined to wait him out.  She'll park her ass right outside his closet if she has to, grab hold of his legs if he tries to make a run for it and force him to drag her along for the ride.  Childish, sure, but effective?  Maybe.  A minute passes, two, maybe more, her hackles rising under his wary scrutiny.  She lifts her chin in defiance even as she keeps her stance loose and limbs relaxed, her hands turned palm up.  He's dangerous, she knows he is, she's  _seen_ it often enough, has heard the screams of tormented suspects to know down to her bones that something's up with him.  A wolf in sheep's clothing, a predator in a city of prey.  And he's hurt and backed into a corner, and isn't that the worst place for him to be?  But it's  _Lucifer_.  She's safe, if she treads carefully.

"Stop shutting me out, Lucifer.  I  _want_ to help.  Please let me."

His eyes slide shut as if pained, that unnatural stillness from yesterday on her couch coming over him again, like he's a statue planted where Lucifer used to be, but... she doesn't have the same reaction.  There isn't a chill to her bones coming with it, like death itself has taken up residence in the weird chaos her life has become.  There isn't an  _unfriendliness_ either.  More... resignation in the soft sigh of  _her name_.  Defeat in the slow slump of his shoulders and the... the droop of his entire frame.  Like with that one sigh the fight's gone out of him.  Like he's tired of manning the forts and lighting the torches and pulling up the drawbridge all on his own.  A flicker of movement by his hand and she glances down in time to see his fingers pluck up a random shirt, scrunch the material as he brings it to his front and twists it between both hands, silent anxiety he won't give voice to as he inhales, slow and steady, and cautiously straightens to his full height again.  Maybe no more shutting her out?

He's back to dodging her eyes again.

"It's... best if we... head outside.  Too cramped in here.  I can't... unfurl."

_What?_

"O-kay?  Promise you won't throw yourself off the balcony just to get away from me?"

He pauses.  He  _actually_ pauses.  Had he considered that?  Had that been a  _plan?_ How can he - does he - why is  _death_ an alternative to being honest?  What in the  _hell?_ But there's no space to be angry, only sad, so goddamn sad and heartbroken for him, for all he's been through, for what he's  _going through_ that makes a permanent end seem like a good solution.

_Let me in, Lucifer, please.  Let me help.  I won't run away, I won't be frightened.  Not of you._

"You have my word," he says, so quick and quiet she almost misses it.  Progress at last.  Small, but damn good progress.  She paints a shaky smile on her face and takes a step back.  He follows it with one forward, matching his pace to hers as she backs out of his closet and, when she holds out her hand... he takes it.

* * *

He has wings.  Lucifer.  Just like Trixie said.  Just like he'd said, when his container had been stolen.  Except he'd burned that pair and -

And now she has her hand on another wing.  Somehow.  Do they keep on sprouting if they're lost, like shark teeth?  She doesn't understand it, doesn't think she  _will_ when he finally explains it.  He rests beside her now, dead to the world on his stomach, face pinched and lined with pain even in sleep and what she'd give to smooth her fingers over his frown and wish it away, kiss away every hurt and every doubt and repair all the wounds he's suffered, all the damage done.  All the pain  _she's_ caused for ever questioning his sanity, his sincerity, his word.  He's been nothing but honest with her, from day one, with  _everything_.

He has wings.  Or... one.  She doesn't know where the other is, the one he butchered for hours until it came off, the one responsible for all the blood in his bathroom and the fresh scarring on his back.  And isn't that something to make her die a little inside -  _fresh_ scarring, overlaid on what she remembers.  He's done this unspeakable horror before, cut off his  _limbs_ to...

Escape his father?   _God?_ Who happens to be  _real?_

She can't wrap her head around it, his fragmented, frantic babble and pained noises and great, heaving  _sobs_ as he'd twisted one way and the other, clawing at his shoulder, trying to reach around it to seize hold of feathers and  _pull_ until she'd thrown herself on him and grabbed his hands and wrapped herself around him as best she could if only to get him to  _stop_.  Stop  _hurting himself._

His wing is real and alive and  _him_ , warmth slowly creeping into it as the rest of his body finally recovers from so long curled up in the shower, the extra musculature rendering his back strange and inhuman and shifting with every slow breath.  She brushes her fingers over the feathers, so soft and  _white_ despite his violence, despite the stain of his hatred and fear, gentling her touch to something barely there when she draws close to the bare patches he'd caused.  And it's a good thing he sleeps now, she thinks, blind to the tears she can't stop no matter how hard she scrubs at her eyes.  He is,  _literally,_ divine, an angel cast from heaven and thrown to the horrors of hell, finding home in Los Angeles, only for... this to happen.  For the wings to manifest again, for someone or some _thing_ to force them upon him and make him go through - cutting them off again.

Them.   _Wings._ Real.  To him like arms and legs are to her.   _Limbs_ , body parts, functioning and alive, made of blood and flesh and bone (and feather).   _Real_.  With their own network of nerves and pain receptors, aware of tactile sensation, feathers ruffling and smoothing as she pets over them, eases her fingers through them, learns their arrangement and texture...

And he'll mutilate himself, over and over, to be free of them, to be rid of the sprawling expanse of them, to cut himself off from the reach and will of his father.  All of this pain she can't even  _compare_ to, just to be  _free._ What kind of parent wishes this on their child?  What kind of parent casts aside their child and poisons knowledge of their existence, paints them evil in the eyes of humanity, brands them everything dark and vile and  _wrong_ in the world?  What kind of merciful god just...  _lets_ this happen?

Her thoughts stutter again, twist and turn and flip around until the focus is solely on Lucifer again.  Lucifer.  The  _devil_.  Satan.  Literal Satan, asleep by her side and too exhausted to keep his guard up anymore, trusting her  _just enough_ to leave his one remaining wing stretched across her lap and over the bed and partway out his bedroom it's so big, under her care and curiosity.  Trusting her... not to hurt him anymore than he's already hurt himself.

It's... a lot to take in.  She feels too small, too fragile, too  _simple_ and  _human_ for all this.. this  _truth_ about the world around her, the entire fabric of her belief system ripped apart and set on fire in the space of an hour.  She'll crumble under the weight of it, pressed on all sides until she's flat as a pancake and cooked so thoroughly he could stick a fork in her and call her well done.

Chloe Decker.  In bed with  _the devil._ The very real, very alive, very  _winged_ devil.  The charming bastard dressed in sharp suits and witty banter, all fire and spice and everything nice, something soft and gentle hidden under all his sharp edges and  _understandable confusion_ with all the social constructs humans have fashioned for themselves over the  _literal millennia_ he's spent in hell.  That man.  The devil.

And all she sees is Lucifer.  More than she knew, more than she can wrap her head around, more than she knows what to do with except offer comfort in the few ways she can.  Wing and fallen divinity and hellfire and brimstone and hesitant contentment at the feeling of someone else simply  _petting_ his wing... he's still just  _Lucifer._

Still the infuriating sonofabitch she might... she might... no.

He's still  _Lucifer_ , the man she...

She loves him.

**Author's Note:**

> And... to anyone reading this who might have gone through self harm or is contemplating it, please don't. Please know you're not alone. Please know there's help out there, even if it feels like there isn't.
> 
> As someone who has been in this very rocky boat... you deserve peace, peace within yourself, peace of mind. You're not a hindrance. You're not a burden. You're not a problem. You _deserve_ help, no matter how big or small. If you're struggling, please reach out, speak out, for that help.
> 
> My fics can also be [found here](https://scribblesdg.tumblr.com).
> 
> And if you just want to ~~scream~~ chat about Lucifer, you can find me on my [main blog](https://wrathoscribbles.tumblr.com) as well. I don't bite, I promise.


End file.
